When my son Scott announced he was bringing ten guests to my Montana dream ranch for the weekend, I knew it wasn’t a visit—it was an invasion. He said it with the casual arrogance of a man who assumed my retirement sanctuary was his to command. His final words stung: “If you don’t like it, go back to the city.” So I did exactly that. I left for the Four Seasons in Denver and orchestrated a weekend they would never forget.
Before leaving, I made some “adjustments.” I replaced the luxury linens with scratchy barn blankets, set the thermostat to extremes, and cultivated a swamp in my pristine pool. My ranch hands helped with the pièce de résistance: we let three rescue horses—trained to open doors—into the house. As my uninvited guests arrived in their designer clothes, they were greeted not by a serene retreat, but by chaos. A horse was defecating on my Persian rug. A llama named Napoleon had taken up residence. The Wi-Fi was gone, and the “authentic ranch life” they’d posted about on Instagram became their inescapable reality.
From my hotel suite, I watched the disaster unfold via hidden cameras. They spent the weekend wrestling with animals, shivering in cold rooms, and dodging a particularly vengeful rooster. The mechanical bull delivered by well-meaning neighbors became the centerpiece of their humiliation. It was a masterclass in consequences, showing my son that the life he dismissed as simple was anything but. He had wanted to take over my dream; instead, he got a crash course in its demanding, messy truth.
